None Goes His Way Alone
by Phreakycat
Summary: Dean can call him Daryl Hannah all he wants, if he'll just get here already. He's starting to raisin. And the water creeps higher." Featuring Sam in peril, Dean to the rescue, and Awesome!Bobby.
1. Chapter 1

Title: None Goes His Way Alone  
Author: RedLotusOasis  
Rating: T  
Spoilers: General season one, "Skin"  
Warnings: Mildly harsh language, but no worse than you hear on the show.  
Summary: "Dean can call him Daryl Hannah all he wants, if he'll just _get here_ already. He's starting to raisin. And the water creeps higher."  
Disclaimer: Sadly, the brothers Winchester do not belong to me. But maybe they should. I mean, sure, I beat them up a lot, but at least *I* follow it up with some brotherly comfort. *glares meaningfully at Kripke*

A/N: "Season Four Affective Disorder" continues to exert its depressing hold on me. In desperate need of brotherly schmoop and H/C, I have once again self-medicated with fic. Here's hoping it eases the pain of season four's angst for some of you, as well. One again, major credit goes to Faye Dartmouth for her exceptional Beta'ing skills. Stay strong, my fellow Sam Girl! Reviews are much loved and appreciated, should you feel inclined to share your opinion with me. :)

**"There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others comes back onto our own."**

**_ Edwin Markham_**

* * *

Sam Winchester decides on September 2, 2006, that he is never _ever_ going near water again. Maybe he can someday be convinced to shower, if he gets smelly enough to cause personal distress to others. But only if it's a particularly low-flo shower head. Otherwise, society will be lucky if Sam is even in the same _room_ as a flushing toilet after today.

Right now, water is not his friend. Water sucks. This whole _situation_ sucks.

The day had started so well, too - promising leads to follow up on, breakfast at a diner that actually understood the concept of 'egg white omelet,' and a motel that seemed to have been built _after_ 1960. Most importantly, he and Dean were _finally_ starting to ease back into the rhythm of being brothers and hunting partners again. Dean had teased him good-naturedly about his omelet, waggled his eyebrows when the waitress flirted shamelessly with Sam, and even let Sam drive the Impala back from the diner.

It had felt like the first time since the Roosevelt Asylum that they felt truly comfortable around each other.

Then a frickin' shapeshifter had to go and screw it all up. Sam hadn't even seen it coming. One minute he was running after the slimy bastard, the next there had been blinding pain in his skull and nothing but indistinct darkness.

_God_, it had been a boneheaded move to just veer off on his own like that, chasing it through the rain and fog. He'd screwed up royally, putting himself and his brother in danger. _Again_. Dean is going to kill him.

So much for regained trust.

As if all of that isn't bad enough - as if being knocked unconscious and abducted isn't demeaning enough - the stupid, moronic monster has chained him in a basement. Sure, at first it had seemed to be a step up from a sewer – until it had become apparent that it was a _flooding_ basement, thanks to the epic rainstorm raging outside. So in addition to the discomfort of being shackled to the floor, hungry and tired and mentally kicking himself, Sam has the added torture of cold, wet jeans and extremities that have gone numb from the chilly water.

Currently, the water level is hovering just below his navel as he sits with his back to the basement wall. Due to the short length of chain between his newly-acquired wrist manacle and the bolt in the floor, Sam's face is as high above the water as it's going to get. This is a concern, because the water level is still rising steadily.

But not a huge concern, Sam reassures himself.

Dean is going to swoop in here any time now, guns blazing, and free him. Sam may have screwed up, Dean may be angry, but it's still _Dean_, and his brother never lets him down when it counts. Sam might do things like wander off and get possessed by the spirit of an insane doctor, might try to shoot his own brother in the head, or might even abandon strategy and get kidnapped by a monster, but Dean will still come to save him. Sam knows this - even with four years of tense separation looming in the recent past, Sam _knows_ this.

There'll be the usual round of belittling sarcasm - Dean calling Sam a damsel in distress and making inane references to the movie _Splash_ - but Sam knows it's nothing more than a mask for his brother's concern. Dean will get him out of this stinking basement, and once he's dry and warm Sam will apologize and they'll continue the work of rebuilding a brotherhood.

And, really? Dean can call him Daryl Hannah all he wants, if he'll just _get here_ already.

He's starting to raisin.

And the water creeps higher.

* * *

Dean is never letting Sam out of his sight again. Seriously, the kid has some sort of cosmic sign on his back that reads "Attention, Creatures of the Night: Free puppy!" And god help him, it's another damn shifter. Dean _hates_ the friggin' things. He still hasn't forgotten the oh-so-lovely experience of shooting his own doppelganger, his badly beaten brother gasping and bleeding ten feet away. Sonuvabitches are creepy. Just plain unsettling, the way they slither out of their false skins, the way they steal a person's face and voice and memories. Plus, the last shifter had had the gall to _steal his car_. Freakin' _monsters_.

And now one has his kid brother. _Again_.

God _damnit_, Sam.

He _knew_ they shouldn't have split up. But they'd lost track of the thing in the rain and the fog, and Dean had zigged when Sam zagged, and that had been all it had taken.

Twenty minutes later and the discovery of Sam's Sig Saur (smeared with blood) lying in an alley, and Dean is officially panicked.

Luckily, he knows just who to call.

* * *

Bobby Singer makes good time to Okewani, Washington. After all, he's only two hours away, tracking a wood ogre near the British Colombian border. Dean thinks Bobby probably heard the thinly veiled panic in his voice, and most likely broke several laws getting to Washington quickly. Dean reminds himself to thank Bobby for his haste, later, when Sam's life isn't on the line.

"Bobby," he says gruffly when Bobby arrives at his hotel room, "Thanks for coming. The more eyes we got on this, the better."

"'Course I came, ya idgit," Bobby growls, shaking the ever-present rainwater from his hat. "That wood ogre can keep for a while - that brother'a yours… well, the sooner we find him the better for us all."

Dean feels a swell of relief, the sort of _thank God, it's not all on me_ feeling that has been so sorely missing from his life since their dad went AWOL.

"Yeah," Dean sighs, slumping on the bed. "I just- I don't know where to look. This thing is changing skins like Paris Hilton changes outfits. It could be anyone, anywhere, and Sam could already be-"

His voice chokes off, and he feels the fear and desperation clogging his throat.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, boy," Bobby chastises him. "Yer already lettin' your emotions run yer head. You just said it yourself - this thing could be anyone, and you let me waltz right in here unchecked. S'foolish, and not like you. Get yer head on straight, or you won't be any help to Sam."

Dean feels a flush of embarrassment and wariness, and the sudden mistrust must be all over his face because Bobby rolls his eyes and produces a silver knife.

"A little late for suspicion, Numbnuts," the older hunter says dryly, but scores his palm with the knife all the same. Showing Dean the welling, red, _human_ blood, he re-stashes the knife.

Dean offers up a chagrined smirk, and Bobby smirks back with a look that clearly conveys his fond exasperation.

"Now, how about we find that walking disaster you call a brother so we can both finish our hunts and get the hell outta this perpetual puddle of a state?"

* * *

Sam's teeth are chattering, sending nonsense Morse code messages through his skull. He distracts himself for all of five minutes by trying to find a pattern in way his molars rattle together, remembering evening code lessons with their dad.

But that just leads to remembering how, as children, he and Dean had tapped out messages to each other against the headboards of shared motel beds. Long after they were supposed to be sleeping, Dean would tap out dirty limericks and a young Sam would struggle to smother his giggles in his pillow.

_There once was a fellow McSweeny _

_Who spilled some gin on his weenie _

_Just to be couth _

_He added vermouth _

_Then slipped his girlfriend a martini_

Thinking about those warm, safe moments with his brother just makes Sam ache over the time he's missed with Dean these last few years. It just makes this musty, freezing basement all the more miserable. And it's safe to say that Sam really doesn't need any more misery added to this situation.

Can't he catch a break? He's already been kidnapped and shackled - he'd had to wake up to a God damned shapeshifter leering at him. Then the creepy thing had taunted him with its plans to steal Sam's face and wreak some havoc, monologuing on and on about its evil, genius plans and superior intellect.

_Blah, blah, blah. _

Why do these things have to _talk_ so much?

At least the bastard had left the overhead light on when it had gone gallivanting off to do God-knows-what. The wan little 40 watt means he's spared the fate of drowning in the dark, but that's about the only silver lining Sam could find right about now.

The water is up to just under his sternum, and his legs have turned to heavy, numb logs of water-soaked flesh.

_There once was a hunter named Sammy_

_Who let a shifter give him the whammy_

_So then he was bait,_

_and could do naught but wait,_

_as his ass did grow quite clammy. _

It isn't really all that funny, and yet Sam finds himself laughing at the stupid limerick his soggy brain offers up. He'll have to remember it - Dean will get a kick out of it.

Assuming, that is, Sam is still breathing by the time Dean finds him.

* * *

It takes Dean and Bobby an hour and thirty-eight minutes to figure out that the shifter is squatting in one of its former victim's real estate listings. An hour and thirty-eight minutes of shuffling through papers and documents and _utterly frickin' useless_ words. An hour and thirty-eight minutes that Sam could be being tortured, or beaten, or already beginning to decompose.

Dean clamps down hard on that thought and shoves it into the part of his brain labeled _not a chance in hell_, because he's damn close to losing his mind as it is, and that'll just push him over the edge.

He can't lose his brother now (_not ever_). He's just gotten Sam back. Even with all the crap of the last six months - Dad bailing, Jessica's death, Lawrence, the freakin' _asylum_, and then that fight during the hunt with the nasty scarecrow- Dean is grateful to have Sam in his life again. They're _brothers_ again. Dean has missed that more than he'll ever admit. To lose it all now…

_Not gonna happen_, Dean tells himself sternly._ There's still time_.

Sam is alive. He _has_ to be alive, because the world is still here, still spinning, and Dean's pretty certain all of that would have crumbled the moment Sam died.

* * *

The water is sneaking up over the tops of his shoulders now, giving Sam an up-close view of the oily surface of the basement flood. Several cans of cleaning solution and paint bob merrily in the water, buoyed in currents that Sam can't discern. Chemical films blossom out around the floating cans, making Georgia O'Keefe rainbow pictures on the water.

Sam worries briefly about what the chemicals will do to his vision when the water gets that high. Then he remembers that, should the water get that high, it'll be a moot point what happens to his eyes.

He's still shivering, the motion sending concentric circles of ripples out through the water. He's _tired_, and he feels heavy and numb. Twice now he's been jerked back from near-unconsciousness when his dipping chin skims the water. He wonders if the cold and the weariness will win out, if he'll slip into the wetness and drown as he gives in to sleep.

_God_, he doesn't want to die like this. He has to avenge Jess, find their Dad, finish fixing things with Dean. There's too much left to do for him to die so pointlessly.

Not to mention, he really doesn't want to die alone.

_Dean_, he thinks with growing desperation, _where are you_?

* * *

The house on Mulberry Ave looks unassuming and boring - _normal_ - a hideous shade of beige.

God, these people have _no idea_ what is lurking in their neighborhood. But it doesn't matter - Dean is going to kill the damn thing before anyone else has to learn the hard way what's living on their street.

Dean parks the Impala at the end of the avenue and resists the urge to sprint to the house in question. He wants to park closer, wants to run and kick down the door, but with the recent deaths in the area, people are spooked. They can't afford to attract attention, can't afford to have someone remember the car.

_Be smart or be caught_, his father's voice whispers.

Night has come on fast, and with Bobby at his side, Dean melts into the shadows and creeps towards the house. It's still raining, unsurprisingly, but the decreased visibility works in their favor. It wouldn't do to have a good Samaritan neighbor peek out their window and see two strange men breaking into the house next door.

They don't have time for complications. With Sam missing, there's no time for _anything_ except finding him.

Already, driving across town to Mulberry Ave has taken considerably more time than they can afford. A good-sized creek runs through the center of the neighborhood, winding behind residents' back yards. The rain has swelled it into a small river, and more than one back yard is submerged under the muddy water. Storm drains are overflowing onto the street, and the danger of hydroplaning on the wet roads had been very real. Dean had forced himself to drive at a reasonable speed, his anxious mind chanting _Sam, Sam, Sam_ in time to the_ whoosh-slap _of the Impala's wipers.

_Please_, he prays silently, _Don't let me be too late._

Heart pounding, Dean follows Bobby around the house to the back door and stands guard while the older man picks the lock. As soon as he hears the soft _snick_ of the latch disengaging, Dean is through the door and sweeping the kitchen for threats.

Nothing.

"Damnit, boy," Bobby hisses behind him, "We do this thing right - don't go charging off half-cocked and gettin' killed. "

Dean doesn't have time to feel chastised, but he does make an effort to be more cautious as he sneeks a look into the dining room.

The place is dead quiet, no sign of life, and for a heart-sinking moment Dean thinks they've gotten it wrong.

Then he sees the faint sliver of light fanning out from under a door to his right.

_Basement_.

Motioning to Bobby, Dean points at the door. Nodding, Bobby reaches out and slowly turns the knob. The door creaks as Bobby eases it open, and Dean winces as he aims his Taurus at the lit doorway, half expecting a snarling shifter to launch itself through the frame. There is only a gust of damp air, though. The sound of water lapping, and-

"Who's there?"

The voice sounds weak, wary - but it is unmistakably his brother's. Relief turns Dean's insides to jelly.

"Sam?" he calls, already halfway down the stairs as Bobby curses and mutters about bone-headed Winchesters.

"Dean!"

Dean pounds down the stairs, taking in the dimly lit basement and the cracking cement walls without conscious thought. His right foot lands on the first submerged step with a splash before he realizes that the basement is flooded.

Then he sees Sam, or the little bit of Sam that's above the surface of the water, and his heart stutters and clenches in his chest.

Sam's face is just visible, tilted back painfully in order to keep his jaw out of the water. His hair is wet at the ends and the back of his head is submerged. Even straining like this, dirty water laps up against Sam's lips as he struggles, and Dean can hear his brother breathing harshly through his nose as he presses his mouth shut to keep the wetness out.

"Shit. _Sam_," Dean gasps, splashing his way down the rest of the steps, and _damn_ the water's cold. No wonder Sam's lips look a little blue.

"Dean, you've got to hurr-" Sam's voice chokes off in a wet garble as Dean's movements send little waves dashing over his face.

Sam is staring at him with huge, frightened eyes. Dean can clearly see the panic that his brother is trying so hard to hold back, and God, Dean's had this nightmare a hundred times before. Trying to run through a heaviness that grabs at his legs, hurrying to save the people he loves and always being just a little too slow.

Then he's reaching Sam, wincing as he lowers himself further into the flood and begins to pat his brother down.

"Sam, are you stuck?"

"Shackled," Sam gasps, and water sprays from his lips. "M'arm."

Dean follows the feel of his brother's long arms down towards the floor, and has to hold his breath and submerge his head before he can lean far enough to feel the band of hard iron around Sam's right wrist. His fingers walk down the attached chain, stretched taut as Sam pulls against it uselessly. There's a metal bolt sunk into the cement, and Dean maps it out with his hand before he comes up for air.

"Bobby!" Dean yells, "I need the lock picks!"

Bobby is already halfway across the basement, face grim, when Dean turns to look for him. By the time he looks back towards Sam, the water has risen to cover his little brother's mouth, and Sam can only fight for air through his nose. He stares right at Dean, like he's begging.

Then he closes his eyes, and the water rises to cover his nose.

* * *

A/N: This story is complete, and the second half will be posted tomorrow. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Ok, here's the second half. It's been pointed out to me that I seem to have a penchant for drowning Sam. Not sure what's up with that, but it'll give me something to discuss in therapy I suppose. Enjoy, and please feel free to review if you feel so inclined!

* * *

_Dean is here. Dean will fix this_, is the only thing Sam has time to think before the stale water rises and cuts off the last source of air he has. But as much as he tries to believe that he's saved, the fact remains that he _can't breathe_, and instinctual panic wells up in his chest. He'd scream, if he had the air, and_ isn't that ironic_?

His eyes are still above the surface, and he sees the look on Dean's face - understands that his brother is too late to rescue him, just in time to watch him die. It's not _fair_! There's still too much they need to say to each other, and Sam doesn't want Dean to have to see him drown.

_Please_…

Sam's chest is burning, collapsing, and his vision is tunneling. His lungs struggle to draw a breath, fighting against a throat that is trying to keep the floodgates closed.

He knows, in the tiny part of his brain not crippled by terror, that moving just uses up his oxygen quicker. Still, he trashes against his binding, kicks out with his legs in a useless effort to fight against the inevitable. His free arm flails out of the water and over his head, and he can feel his fingers clawing at the air as though he could grasp a handful and feed it to himself underwater.

His lungs feel like over-blown balloons, and he knows he has to open his mouth soon, or they'll just burst. His brain knows it means death, but his body argues that to keep his lips sealed is the deadly option, and whoever said 'mind over body' didn't know _shit_.

Sam opens his mouth, thinks_ I'm sorry, Dean_.

* * *

Dean worries that maybe he's dislocating Sam's shoulder, tugging furiously to get his brother's arm loose. He'll apologize later, once Sam is out of this damned water and breathing and bitching. Right now, Dean would probably cut Sam's arm off to get him free. Because Sam's _drowning_. He's _dying_.

Dean is touching him, has him in his grip, and he can't save him.

Sam's eyes are rolling madly in his skull, and his booted foot catches Dean in the shin as Sam kicks. One arm waves out of the water and thumps against the wall over Sam's head. Dean thinks _death throes_, and hates himself.

"Bobby," he sobs.

"Hang on, son, hang on," Bobby yells, drawing two slender picks from his set and dropping into the water. Dean watches him duck under the surface, then puts his hands on either side of Sam's face and presses desperately with his fingers.

"Hold on, Sammy, hold on!" he yells, hoping like hell that Sam can hear him underwater. Only Sam's forehead is visible now, and Dean's heart stutters as an explosion of air bubbles erupts from Sam's mouth.

"No, _no_!" Dean cries, and in that moment of blind fear he hears his father's voice again, and knows what to do.

Moving quickly, Dean pinches Sam's nose shut with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, sealing his palm over Sam's mouth. He feels Sam buck weakly, his free hand grazing over Dean's wrist as he tries to bat the smothering hold away.

Taking a deep, heaving breath, Dean dips his face into the water. Still pinching Sam's nose, he tilts his palm away from his brother's mouth and seals his lips over Sam's. He forces a breath into Sam's body, waits until bubbles slip from his brother's lips, and clamps his hand over Sam's mouth again as he surfaces for more air. Sam is still twisting under his grip, but his movements are getting sluggish and uncoordinated.

Bobby surfaces at the same time as Dean does, gasping and blinking water from his eyes. Dean tugs on Sam's arm, but his brother is still stuck fast. Bobby shoots him an inscrutable look and goes under again.

_Too much time_, Dean thinks, _it's taking too much time_…

He breathes in enough air for them both, and slips back into the water.

Sam's not moving at all anymore, but Dean can see his brother's open eyes, staring. He doesn't know if Sam is still seeing him, but Dean stares right back.

He'd do anything to save Sam. He'd kill for him, die for him. But right now, all he can do is look into Sam's eyes and breathe for him.

Dean prays that it's enough.

* * *

Somehow, Sam realizes, he's still alive.

Everything is dark water and coldness, but somewhere above him something is shining and sending shafts of light towards his face. He knows that the light is _air_ and _warmth_ and _safety_.

The light is _Dean_, and Sam opens his eyes wider to try to see his brother, one last time.

The surface of the water shatters, and Sam's water-blurred eyes recognize Dean's face moving towards him.

Sam's heart swells with love and regret.

It all goes dark.

* * *

Dean's lost count of how many times he's ducked underwater to force air into Sam's lungs.

His brain is succumbing to a sort of clinical hysteria, calculating the number of minutes a person can go without air, how long until irreparable damage is done.

He's just about to go under again when Bobby bursts through the surface, sputtering, yelling _he's loose, he's loos_e.

Dean grabs a fistful of Sam's button-down and heaves, pulling his brother up and out of the water. Sam's head lolls lifelessly on his neck, his hair dark and plastered to his skull. Rivulets of water run down his face like tears, but Sam's eyes are closed now, and his mouth is slack. He looks _dead_.

Bobby is grabbing Sam under his arms and hauling him further out of the water, Sam's head rolling to rest in the space between the older hunter's torso and bicep.

Dean stares at his brother's chest, willing it to rise, but it remains still under the sodden layers of Sam's clothes.

"C'mon, Sam, _breathe_," Dean whispers, and grinds his knuckles into Sam's sternum as hard as he can.

For once in his life, Sam does as he's told and gasps, arching away from the pain and twitching in Bobby's hold as he coughs and sputters. Dean could cry, could drop to his knees and thank a god that he doesn't really believe in, but all he does is cup Sam's face gently in his palm and brush soaked bangs from his kid brother's face.

"Thank God," Bobby says, voice strained. "Now help an old man out here, Dean, and let's get yer brother outta here. I swear, he weighs twice as much wet as he does dry."

Grinning stupidly with relief and gratitude, Dean slips under Sam's shoulder and takes some of his substantial weight.

Sam is breathing wetly, ribs heaving under Dean's hand, and they don't get halfway to the stairs before Sam opens his eyes and _freaks the hell out_.

* * *

Sam comes to violently.

His brain is still struggling to understand what's happening, but his body is fully prepared to act on its own in the meantime.

He remembers water and desperation and _drowning_.

_I'm drownin_g!

He flails frantically, can't remember which way is up and where the air is.

He doesn't figure out that he's already free and breathing until he crashes back into the water. The cold hits him all over again, and wetness floods his open mouth as it cuts off his panicked cry.

He fights against the water, somehow manages to get his head above the surface again. He's gagging and terrified and so _God damn confused_.

Something tries to grab at his arm, and he remembers the shifter, tries to pull away.

Then he hears someone shouting his name, and his whole body screams _Dean_!

It's the only spot of light in all this fear and darkness, and Sam lunges for it desperately.

* * *

Dean isn't prepared for his brother to give an inarticulate cry and thrash wildly. Neither, apparently, is Bobby, because Sam jerks free from both of their grips and splashes back into the water.

"Jesus," Dean swears, grabbing at flailing limbs and trying to pull his brother upright. Sam is gagging on water as he surfaces again, eyes ridiculously wide, and Dean can tell that Sam still thinks he's drowning. That ol' fight or flight response is going strong, and Sam's body seems to be trying to accomplish _both_ at the same time.

Sam never does _anything_ by halves.

"Sam, _Sam_!" Dean yells, dodging a pin-wheeling arm. Sam seems to see him then, and launches himself at Dean's waist, grabbing and clinging desperately.

Dean suddenly understands the phrase hanging on like a drowning man on a whole new, personal level.

"Hey, hey… Sam, you're okay, man. You're okay now," he says gently, struggling not to let his brother pull him down into the wetness.

"_Dean_," Sam sobs, "Dean, _help_," and Jesus, the kid seems to be trying to _climb_ Dean to get out of the water. Dean can feel him shaking, trembling violently, and knows it's not just from the bone-chilling cold.

"Easy, kiddo, easy," Dean soothes, wrapping an arm around Sam's shuddering back and shooting Bobby a helpless look. "I gotcha now, you're okay."

Sam has made it far enough up to bury his face in Dean's chest and snake unsteady arms around Dean's waist. He clings there, the way he did when he was a child, struggling and failing to get his feet under him. Dean can feel his brother's frightened breath sobbing out against his sternum, and his own breath hitches in response.

He tightens his hold around Sam's back and uses his other hand to cup Sam's neck gently.

"I gotcha," Dean repeats softly, and feels an answering squeeze around his waist.

"When you boys are done with this touching moment of brotherly affection, whadda ya say we get to dry land?" Bobby says gruffly. He's trying to sound sarcastic, but Dean can hear the fondness and emotion in the older hunter's voice.

"Come on, Sam," Dean urges, "Let's get you dry and warm."

Bobby decides to wait in ambush for the shifter, confident that the element of surprise will lend him a quick, easy kill. Dean agrees reluctantly, uncomfortable leaving his friend without backup, wanting to kill the son of a bitch with his own hands. But Sam is fading, freezing under his hands, and so he acquiesces.

They leave the basement and the unassuming beige house, and Sam doesn't let go of Dean even once, the whole way back to their motel.

Dean knows that Sam's mind is still a little waterlogged, that he's confused and exhausted and shaken, and that his brother will undoubtedly be mortified by his needy behavior once his brain dries out.

But a hurt Sam has always been a clingy Sam, and it's always been _Dean_ that Sam clings to.

Dean's self-aware enough to admit, he's glad that hasn't changed.

* * *

Sam wakes up gasping for air, floundering in a tangle of blankets. It feels terrifyingly like drowning, and Sam's heart gallops.

"Hey, easy there," Dean's voice calls, and then his brother's concerned face is hovering over him. Sam calms and stops struggling at once, still confused, but confident that he is safe.

Dean is there.

"You're okay, dude. We're back at the motel. You're just a little tangled up in the blankets."

Dean's deft hands gently extricate him from a ridiculous number of blankets. At Sam's incredulous look, Dean rolls his eyes and explains:

"You were hypothermic, man. Had to warm you up somehow. And dude, as awesome of a brother as I am, I draw the line at sharing body heat. I've got a reputation to uphold, ya know?"

"Oh," Sam says, still a little bewildered. He can hear the thinly veiled fear underlying Dean's teasing, though, and understands just how close he came to dying. He remembers water creeping over his face in a slow, smothering progression and shudders.

"You alright?" Dean asks, glancing at him as he smoothes the untangled coverlet over Sam's legs.

"Yeah," Sam answers, and realizes it's true. It surprises him a little, and he concentrates, trying to fit the jagged pieces of his memory back together. The basement, the rising water - he remembers fear and regret and desperation. But he also remembers hope, faith, and _Dean_.

"I knew you'd save me," Sam says, and Dean stills. Sam sees his brother's façade crack for just a moment, senses the lingering panic that Dean has stuffed down inside of himself.

"Yeah, well, that's what big brothers are for," Dean says, and grins weakly. "But you know, if you could just keep your gangly ass out of trouble for once, I could use the break from having to play hero to your damsel in distress."

Sam is still exhausted, so he just rolls his eyes in exasperation and snuggles deeper into his pillow. He's warm and he's dry, and he doesn't want to move for at least another eight hours. Then Dean moves away from the bed, and Sam's palms go damp with sudden anxiety. He abruptly remembers clinging to Dean in the basement, how his brother was dry land in a sea of cold and wet. He feels a flush of embarrassment, but it's gone as quickly as it came, driven out by the remembered sensation of Dean's arm around him.

_I gotcha_, echoes in his memory, Dean's voice gentle and relieved, and Sam feels the ragged wound of four years apart heal a little more. Angry words in an asylum fade slightly, guilt and blame and so many hurts beginning to lose their sting.

Sam wants to tell Dean how much he's missed being brothers, how grateful he is, despite everything, to have Dean back in his life. Sam wants to tell Dean how scared he's been, thinking that Ellicott and roadside fights might have damaged their relationship beyond repair. He wants to put into words how relieved he is to know those things can be forgiven.

But he's so _tired_, and more than anything else right now Sam just wants Dean nearby. He bites his lip and wonders how he can ask Dean to stay close without sounding like a scared little bitch.

Turns out, he doesn't have to ask.

Dean flops down next to him on the bed, TV remote in one hand and a bag of Sun Chips in the other.

"Bobby said to say hi once you woke up," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of chips. "He finished off the shifter when it came back for you. Bastard never even knew what hit 'em. Now's Bobby's off to track down some wood ogre thing near the Canadian border."

"The shifter… it's dead?" Sam hates the uncertainly in his voice, but so far his experiences with shifters have led to brutal beatings and near-drowning. He thinks maybe he's entitled to a little uneasiness where they're concerned.

"Yup - deader than a doornail," Dean says, and Sam can hear the grim satisfaction in his brother's voice.

"Dean," Sam says hesitantly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"Sam, don't," Dean replies, giving him a sincere look. "It's not your fault. Sometimes, shit just happens. You're okay, the thing responsible is dead, and the good townsfolk are safe. That's all that matters."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, gratitude making his throat tight. "Okay."

"Good," Dean grins, "cause I really don't need you crying remorsefully on my shoulder or anything. There've been far too many chick-flick moments for one day already. In fact, I think you've used up your quota for the year."

Sam gives a long-suffering sigh and snags a chip.

"There's a Quantum Leap marathon on Sci Fi," Dean continues, nudging the bag of chips closer to Sam. "Wanna watch?"

Dean knows that Sam loves Quantum Leap, and Sam sees the offer for the caring gesture that it is.

_Sure, Dean. No more chick-flick moments_, Sam thinks bemusedly, but all he says is:

"Yeah, sounds good."

Dean tunes the TV to the correct station, and there is a moment of silence between them as the show begins. Sam tries hard to ignore the lingering memories of underwater panic, but as Scott Bakula narrates the opening credits, he finds himself remembering something else. Dean's hand over his mouth, breath being forced into his lungs before he lost consciousness…

"Dude," he declares suddenly, and Dean eyes him warily. "You totally gave me the kiss of life!"

"What?" Dean demands, choking a little on his chips. "I did not give you the kiss of _anything_!"

They argue over 'manly underwater rescue breathing' and 'heartfelt kiss of life' as the TV plays in the background, Sam grinning and Dean turning an indignant shade of red.

It's warm and familiar and safe.

An hour later, as Sam drifts off to sleep again, he feels Dean's hand settle over his heart.

He thinks maybe it says something about his mental health that he's decided to count today as a _good_ day, after all. But Dean's right - they're alive, the monster is dead, and everyone is safe.

Sam takes it for the win it is, and lets himself drift.

Dean is watching over him, and there's no need to be afraid.

This time when he sleeps, he only dreams of light.

_fin_

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading!


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